The Beetle
by NixDucky
Summary: In which Dean drives a Volkswagen Beetle.


**AN: Happy Birthday Worm!**

**Many thanks to my dad for trying to twist his petrol-head brain around someone wanting to drive an Impala over a Beetle to provide me with technical pointers. And he doesn't even like Beetles! And please lord, let him never find my fic!**

**As this work is a gift for my usual beta, it has not been beta'd.**

* * *

"I'm not driving that."

"It's all I've got that's running, boy."

"I'm not driving fucking HERBIE, Bobby."

Bobby shrugged and spread his arms, clearly indicating that it was the Volkswagen Beetle parked in front of his house or nothing.

"No. Nuh-uh. We'll take our chances in Baby. Come on, Sam," Dean growled.

Sam didn't move, but he did give Dean his patented bitch face.

"Oh come ON! Sam!" Desperation was creeping into Dean's voice now.

Sam tilted his head to one side. Dean would not be winning this argument.

"You won't even fit in there, Sam!"

"If I can live for a few days with my knees bent up to my ears, you can drive a Beetle, Dean."

Dean looked frantically from Bobby to Sam. There was no fucking way this was his life now. A BEETLE?!

"It's a good car, Dean," Bobby tried to soothe him. "You know, VW Bugs outsold every car in the world for a good fifty years. It was the highest selling foreign car in the U.S. at one time and the fourth highest-selling automobile of all time." He shut up then. Maybe he was overdoing it…

"I don't care. This… this… _insect _of a car has nothing on Baby. Sam?"

Dean looked back to his brother desperately. Sam just shook his head, and went to start emptying the trunk of the Impala.

"Actually," Bobby started, "over all it's a better ca—"

But Dean was in Bobby's space in a flash, finger pointing right at Bobby's nose. Bobby squinted down at it. "You better not even _think _about finishing that sentence, Bobby. I love you like a father man, but I will knock you out."

Bobby took a step backwards, lifting his hands in surrender. He tried not to show how hard he was struggling to hold back his laughter.

Dean turned to look at Sam, who was standing at the front of the weird little round car, looking into the open trunk.

"Um. We might have to leave some of the weapons behind."

Dean walked over and saw what the problem was. The trunk was tiny, and most of the space was taken up by the spare tire.

"See?! An engine should not be at the back of a car! It ain't right!"

"It'll just be for a few days, Dean." But Sam was starting to sound a little unsure. He looked over at Bobby.

Bobby gave Sam an apologetic look. "It's all I got. I'll call as soon as I get something else running."

Sam gave a small sigh.

"There's some storage space behind the back seat," Bobby offered helpfully, but Dean gave him a filthy look and he shut up.

Eventually they'd transferred as much as they could from the Impala to the Beetle (which admittedly was not much), and parked Baby in a random spot in the junkyard. They needed to keep her safely hidden. Bobby had handed Dean a large tarp to cover her with, but Dean just stood looking at his car with a desolate look on his face.

"We'll uh… we'll give you a moment," Bobby said, and he and Sam went to wait at the house, while Dean said his goodbyes. It was obvious that Dean was talking to the Impala but they couldn't hear what he said. Eventually they saw him give the car's roof an affectionate pat, and sadly pull the tarp over her. They said nothing about the way Dean wiped at his eyes and sniffed.

Dean made his way back to the house and the dreaded pile of pale yellow metal he was apparently going to drive for the next few days. The closer he got the more thunderous his expression became.

He walked over to the driver's side and opened the door. He glared at Bobby over the car, and pointed at him again. "You better make sure nothing happens to my Baby!"

Bobby nodded, "I look like an idjit to you, boy? 'Course I'll look after your car."

Dean gave him a long look, narrowing his eyes, then folded himself into the small car. He knocked his knees on the steering wheel getting in, and cursed loudly.

Sam turned to Bobby and patted him on the shoulder. "We really appreciate it Bobby." Bobby snorted. "No, really. I mean, not the car we would've chosen…" he shrugged, "but we need to keep moving. So thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll call as soon as there's another option," Bobby smiled up at Sam.

It took Sam a few moments to figure out how he was going to fit himself in the car. Eventually the small passenger seat was pushed right up against the rear bench seat, but Sam's knees were still pressed uncomfortably into the metal dashboard, and his head was rubbing up against the upholstered ceiling. Sam gave Bobby a sheepish look.

"Oh, hang on," Bobby called, remembering something.

He walked quickly into the house and came out a moment later with a small fire extinguisher, which he handed to Dean through the window.

"Just keep this under your seat. For in case."

Dean's eyes widened. "For in case of what?!"

"Sometimes they overheat and fuel gets on the exhaust. Doesn't happen often, but it's best to be prepared." Bobby looked unconcerned.

Dean looked appalled. "You're sending us away in a potential fire hazard on wheels?!"

"Don't be dramatic, Dean. It's just a precaution."

Dean stared at Bobby for a long moment. Then he shoved the fire extinguisher under his seat and angrily turned the ignition. The engine sputtered to life. Sam snorted at the put-put-put sound, but Dean just dropped his head to the steering wheel in misery. "Fuck my life," he mumbled gloomily.

He forgot for a moment that the car was stick shift, and the gears grated loudly before he remembered with a huff to put the clutch in.

"Fuck it," Dean said angrily, slamming the car into first gear and stomping on the throttle, taking off in a spray of dirt and gravel.

Bobby ducked, but then he saw Dean taking the sharp turn out of the junkyard too quickly. He tried to yell out a warning, but before he could, the back of the car started to slide… Bobby watched as Dean tried and failed to control the slide—he was used to the bulk of the Impala, after all—saw the rear tire suddenly grip on a patch of asphalt, and then, as if in slow motion, the car tipped precariously onto its left side and slowly went all the way over, landing on the passenger side of the car, tires still spinning, engine still put-put-putting.

Bobby ran over, but he was laughing so hard he found it difficult to talk.

Sam, smooshed against the door on the ground heard what sounded like "direct steering," and "weight bias" and "center of gravity," but he couldn't make much sense out of it what with Bobby's cackling and wheezing.

He did hear—perfectly clearly—his brother calmly say, "Shut the fuck up, Bobby."


End file.
